


Yours, Dysfunctionally

by everybreatheverymove



Category: Veep (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, In which they bone regularly when they're not lobbying, Season 4 AU, amy's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 18:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12195000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreatheverymove/pseuds/everybreatheverymove
Summary: Set mid-season four. AU. Tumblr prompt: "We can't keep this up forever."It's simple enough. Or, at least, it used to be.They'd drink, and they'd talk, and they'd plan, until eventually they'd end up sharing a cab, his hand on her thigh and her ankle wrapping around his calf.It'd been simple enough, easy enough, until it became a little too routine, until it started happening a little too often, until they were a little too sober.





	Yours, Dysfunctionally

They fall into a pattern shortly after she comes to work with him. He gets her the job, she sets the pace and lobbies circles around him.

They take their clients (shared, sometimes) out for drinks, get them sufficiently liquored up enough to settle for an offer inferior to what they're entitled to, to what they probably deserve.

They stay for one more round, as Dan puts it -- which generally means they end up staying for two more -- and they stay drinking long after said clients have dispersed and gone home.

They stay longer than they probably should given their hectic schedules and the business breakfasts they have to bullshit their way through every other fucking morning.

They drink more than they probably should given their history and their _fucked up yet-to-be-defined_ tension, and the way Amy is a lot more touchy when she isn't so sober, something Dan only notices when it's the morning after and his head is pounding from all the scotch and all the tequila and he has nails marks down his arms and across his shoulder blades.

"We can't keep this up forever, you know?" She's pulling on her heels, one finger tugging at the back of her shoe, wiggling her foot. It slips on, and she stands with a flick of her hair, tucking slick blonde locks behind her ears, "We have to stop."

"You said that last week." He nods to reminisce, to remind her, "And now look where you fuckin' are."

"Yeah, well, if anybody asks I'll deny it." She says, glaring down at him, still lay on his bed, dick barely covered by his sheet, arms stretching out as though it's going to wake him up any more. "I'll put the coffee on."

"Decaf's in the cup-"

"I know."

They fall into a pattern shortly after she comes to work with him. He gets her the job, she sets the pace and lobbies fucking circles around him. She gloats about it, too.

He retaliates by fucking her _good_ , good enough and hard enough to make her forget for just a little while how fucking screwed up she is, how messed up they both are.

Good enough that she can pretend she doesn't loathe his guts but crave his affections all at once. Hard enough that he can pretend he doesn't give a single flying fuck about her, despite constantly longing, vying for her attention.

It's simple enough. Or, at least, it used to be.

First, they would just drink a little more after _having_ drinks, snacking on bar peanuts and French fries that he'd order when her stomach would let the whole fucking building know that she hadn't eaten a proper meal all day.

They'd drink, and they'd talk, and they'd plan, until eventually they'd end up sharing a cab, his hand on her thigh and her foot wrapping around his calf.

He'd hold her, and touch her, and she'd make a point of avoiding his eyes, of pressing one hand against his cheek whenever he'd make for her lips. She'd return the kiss, and she'd moan, and they'd be a complete wreck; a clumsy, lazy mix of gums and teeth and tongue, and the cab driver would ban them for using his cab later that night.

They'd be a tangled mess of uneven limbs and bruised lips by the time they reached his apartment -- hers, on occasion, _rarely_ \-- and she'd have him shoved through the doorway before his keys had even left the lock. She'd push at his back with small hands, and he'd tease her about her height, then say it didn't matter because she was still her and she was still gorgeous and she was still completely, totally fuckable.

The door would slam and his keys would fall and she would be in charge. But only long enough to make her _feel_ in control, and before she could even notice the change, the table'd been flipped and suddenly he'd be the one stripping off her tight dress, tugging her panties only so far down her legs until they reach her knees. He'd be the one impatiently fucking her over his kitchen counter, and she is little more than the pretty blonde who wants it, begs for him, pulls him closer.

It'd been simple enough, easy enough, until it became a little too routine, until it started happening a little too often.

It'd been simple enough, except now he's the one ringing her doorbell at three in the morning, and she's the one showing up at his place whenever she's feeling a little lonely, a little horny.

Only things aren't so easy now, things aren't so simple, because he's the one who strips her and she's the one who rides him, fucks him, milks him, and he's the one who lets her, only flips the table and flips _them_ over when she can't quite reach climax, when she can't get there without him being the one to take charge, to grab the back of her neck and slam-

"Are you gonna fucking get up or what?"

It's sick, really. This new pattern they've fallen into.

She tosses a pillow at him, picking it up off the floor, trying but failing to ignore the fact that her stomach does some kind of weird girly _flutter_ when she remembers how she'd bitten into it last night, hands almost tearing it apart just as he almost did her, knuckles as white as her cheeks were pink.

"Already up." He stifles a laugh, and she hates him. But she hates herself more for actually finding him _charming_ \-- in some way, in some disgustingly twisted way, and it's complete bullshit because he is _not_ charming.

Fuck, she feels sick.

"What, you mean you don't wanna fuck again?" He raises one brow, and she wants to slap his face so fucking badly. God, he's so _smug_. And, because he knows she _likes_ it, likes him, he won't change.

But then he sighs (and it's light, and long), and she can only watch as his grin turns to a smile and his smile to an expression she hasn't ever seen on his face before now.

Is that... wait-

"What?"

"You know you're," he pauses, and seems to be gathering his thoughts just as she's gathering her belongings off of his dresser.

She slides the top drawer open, pulls out a fresh pair of her panties and slips them on beneath her blue dress, questions why she chose to put her heels on first. Oh, fuck.

"You know I-"

Yeah. _Fucking_ endearment.

She definitely feels sick.

"Dan?" She bats her lashes, widening her eyes to stare at him until he's watching her, until his attention is solely on her face and not her ass or her legs or her tits, "You and your _limp_ dick need to wake the fuck up and get in the shower. We've got a concrete deal to cement."

She pulls her lipstick from her purse, moving out of his way when he finally draws his covers back with a boyish huff and fucking _slides_ out of bed, all bare balls and pasty ass.

"Jesus." She groans, rolling her eyes until she's staring at the ceiling, avoiding him. "Do you own underwear?"

"Weren't saying that when you had my dick in your mouth last night." Dan mumbles, but she knows she's meant to hear it. Then he smacks her ass and pulls on her waist, draws her back into him, and her fucking curves are moulding into his frame as though it's _normal_.

"Stop."

"Yeah?" He kisses the side of her neck and she can fucking hear his breath, and fuck, if it doesn't send make her skin- "Amy."

"Seriously, go shower. You smell like death had you for dinner and shit you back out."

She writhes, pretends she isn't comfortable in his arms, isn't calm when he touches her. She likes to pretend that she isn't slowly becoming fucking putty when he so much as grazes her elbow, stands closer than should be acceptable.

Fuck him, honestly.

"Fine." He kisses her again, and his mouth lingers, and she can feel the smirk forming on his lips because he must have noticed her shiver, watched her tremble (slightly, try as she might to avoid it). "I'll just do it myself then."

Because, yes, his goddamn dick is pressing up against her ass, and it's _so_ hot, and _she_ is so tight. But-

"You get a halfway decent hand-job and that's it."

"Fine by me, sweetheart."

They really need to stop doing this.


End file.
